Bishops and Blueprints
by debubs
Summary: A one shot book fic set in Erik's days in Persia. The Persian comes only with a warning, only to end up in a short game of wits... and stumbling upon a deadly plan.


"Bishops and Blueprints"  
Angie the Flying Dork  
  
Author's Note: I haven't published a piece of phan fiction in a long time, and thought it best to perhaps start a new one, once an idea struck me. Well, here it is. I think it's an exercise in character more than anything else. I hope you enjoy it. Comments and constructive criticism are allowed. This is from the Persian's (yay) point-of-view. I also guess it goes without saying that I am not M. Leroux and do not own any of these characters.  
From what I can recall the most about that night, it was not the sinister attitude of my confidant, or the danger that he was too arrogant to notice he was getting himself into. Rather, it was the unbelievably balmy air in the night and the bright glow of the stars in the darkening sky. Heat had become synonymous with the arid lands of Persia, and we were not unaccustomed to the discomfort of such weather. Indeed not, for our people have been dressing in loose, long clothing and building our homes with many windows to circulate air! The eerie beauty that befell the dusky skies caused much discomfort in me. The haze that drifted through the area and the moths amongst the lush gardens could give on the idea that they had been trapped in a smudged, impressionistic painting. In fact, the air was so thick with a smell composed of jasmine and hay that I felt as if I was under powerful sedation.  
  
Not to powerful, however, to make me forget why I was out this night.  
  
As chief of the police for a few years, I exercised my authority to patrol the grounds of the sultana's domain at my own free will. Not that she was upset by this, mind you. The sultana had been growing someone senile and paranoid as she lived on, and having an officer of much experience as a vigilante somewhat calmed her. The constant fear of being murdered swiftly plagued her mind, and rightfully so. A political leader always has more enemies than your common man, and the sultana was no exception. My business, however, was not with the sultana this evening.   
  
I was crossing the paths that stretched out from the main area of the palace and led to the sleeping quarters of the sultana's staff. They were forever cowed by her authority and too timid and worried of the ultimate penalty of death they would pay should they upset their mistress. She ruled them with an iron fist ... perhaps even more so than the rest of her kingdom, where my fellow members of the police force had to deal with the endless robberies, fights, and mutinies. I couldn't help but grumble with abhorrence.   
  
However, I had now reached the front door of one of the few people who could test the sultana's patience and live to tell the tale. And tell he would, with much self-satisfaction in his cool voice, pleased by his daring. He lived in one penthouse entirely alone, for he reveled in his own privacy and felt safest alone. The sultana, who was always pleased and amused by the man, felt no grievance in giving him such a generous amount of space to live in. It was the poor and secretly embittered staff that would have to complain about being crowded in a home even more.   
  
However, this was all irrelevant now. I reminded myself to not let my thoughts wander and to straighten my priorities. I knocked on the heavy, dark door of the flat and waited, shoving my hands into my pockets and twiddling with the soft lining inside of them. I was growing impatient. Perhaps he was expecting anyone to visit him on this night. Not that I cared to, mind you, for every experience I had meeting him had always been grim and unpleasant. Nonetheless, I had news.  
  
I had nearly forgotten why I was standing on the stoop of the flat when the door opened ever so slightly. After a moment, the person standing behind it allowed it to swing lazily on its hinges. In the entryway stood a man whose height rivaled my own towering stature. In contrast, however, he was shockingly thin, but nevertheless a magnificent presence in his loose trousers and long shirt. The elaborate gold embroidery on the hems matched the exotic shade of his eyes. Most unnerving was the plain, black mask worn over his face that covered every feature but his chin and his eyes. However, those fiery orbs expressed just as much emotion as his hideous face could. I was standing in front of the man I had known as Erik. Among my people, we fancied calling him 'The Walking Corpse' for his hideousness, or the 'Trapdoor Lover' because of his curious fascination with architecture.   
  
Regardless of the name, I could tell he was rather displeased with my sudden appearance.   
  
"Daroga," he greeted, his voice not reflecting the annoyance in his eyes. "How nice of you to grace me with your flattering presence." I blinked, his sound catching me off of my guard as it always had. Erik's voice reminded me of water… so cool and crystal clear… so tranquil and benign when he was content, and choppy and rough when feeling quite otherwise. I was merely skipping stones that would make that voice quake and quiver if I was to anger him enough. There was a deadly silence between the two of us, until he made no effort to hide his animosity with me.  
  
"Unless you prove yourself to be of some use, would you please leave?" he thundered, tensing his arms and damned near ready to slam the door in my face. So insolent. He was only in his late twenties, myself being nearly ten years his senior. But that voice… the fear it was able to inspire in me, despite his age. I searched desperately and found my courage.   
  
"I come bringing important news," I stammered. He rolled his eyes and coughed into his thin hand.  
  
"News?" Erik responded, feigning concern. He moved from the doorway and threw his arms open. "Well, why don't you come in then, and make yourself comfortable? We can chatter like civilized men, perhaps?" His angry tone almost had me ready to turn and leave. Nonetheless, I went in.  
  
I was nearly taken aback over how lavishly his flat was decorated. The bare, beige walls looked rather awkward surrounding all of the finery in the room. Fat, feather pillows… ornate, tasseled carpets… mammoth, polished furniture. The sultana really did favor her menacing plaything. What caught my attention the most, however, was an innocent length of rope sitting idly on one of the small tables. I, however, was entirely aware of the malice that lay behind such a seemingly innocuous thing. My brow broke out into a sweat and I turned my head, upset from the sight. Erik sat himself at a lovely chair, his elbows resting on yet another table. Head on his folded hands, he looked in my direction.  
  
"Chess, Daroga?"  
  
I was so surprised by his request that I forgot to express my dislike of the nickname he had insisted on calling me.  
  
"Pardon?" I furrowed my eyebrows and gave him a peculiar look. He seemed unfazed, used to getting stares from people.  
  
"I said," he began, emphasizing every word as if I was a child, " 'Chess, Daroga?'" He deftly began setting up finely crafted pieces on a board on the table. I scoffed at his gall.  
  
"I come here in dire need of talking, and you ask me to play a game?" I sat myself in the chair across from him, now becoming the annoyed one between the two of us.  
  
"Well, isn't life a game itself?" he chuckled. "Win or be conquered…" His voice had trailed off. He coughed again. "Besides, it's been so long since I've had anyone to challenge me to a match." Underneath the arrogance and humor in his voice, I detected a small hint of melancholy. I immediately felt in debt of playing him at least once. Just to give him some honest companionship. "The servants are all too afraid, stupid… or both… to even try, and the Sultana doesn't care for chess." Indeed. The overgrown brat had become fascinated with Erik's expertise at the sport of killing. I shuddered slightly and looked at the ground. When I looked up, he was now quickly setting up the pieces on my side, with such eagerness that I could not rebuke him.  
  
"Very well," I mumbled. I hadn't given a go at the game for quite sometime. "We can play and talk." After those words, I could sense he had been considerably cheered. I cleared my throat and moved my pawn, not really caring as to where. "Regarding your sultana…"  
  
"Hmm?" he asked carelessly, more intent on winning his little game. Incredibly typical of him…  
  
"I have reason to believe that your trust should lie in a less fickle friend."  
  
"Fickle," he said, voice rich with disbelief. "Frankly, dearest Daroga, the sultana has been my most caring companion ever since I have made myself a presence here." He took a pawn that I hadn't even noticed was in harm's way. "Your turn," he added dryly.  
  
"She is only fascinated with your mischief and puppetry," I said tactlessly. "Not who you are. You are a rag doll… once she grows bored with you, she will dispose of you." Erik's eyes narrowed, and we played in silence for a few minutes. His eyes were squinting the whole time. Not only was he perturbed by my comments, but I had also managed to displace one of his rooks. Erik hated being bested at his own game more than mostly anything of. We played a bit longer.  
  
"The sultana will never grow tired of me," he said suddenly, flexing his long, gloved hands. He made his next move.  
  
"How do you suppose that would be, Erik?" I twirled my bishop between two of my fingers, my eyes fixed on my opponent. He allowed himself a small chortle. Pushing his chair back, Erik got up and crossed casually over towards a desk in the corner of the room. He picked up large rolls of what I assumed to be blueprints. He cast a look at me, peering right into my eyes as if searching for something.  
  
"On a second reflection, perhaps not…" Erik gingerly stuffed the plans in between the desk and the wall.   
  
"You can trust me, Erik," I murmured, out of sheer curiosity to know what plans those blueprints held.   
  
"I highly doubt it." His fingers gently balled into fists. "I can't seem to really trust anyone these days. The second I let you in on such personal affairs, you will run off and ruin me." Erik's voice was becoming quick. He had realized his err in even hinting that he had some interesting plans. I smiled to myself, my grin hidden behind my hand.  
  
"Very well," I said, planting my bishop down to his side of the board. "I care not, and any fascination I had before leaves me." He snorted derisively and laughed.  
  
"Well… it is a very magnificent idea, this toy I am building her…" He slowly picked the scrolls up once more. Erik could never let a moment slip by when he could show off the ingenuity of his inventions to the people inept in illusions. Surely he was much wiser as an older adult, but at that age, he still had more to learn when it came to keeping his defenses. He beckoned me over to the desk, and then turned to clear it off. He rolled out one of the papers, weighing it down with a small pouch of sand on each corner and stood back.  
  
I have never been a brilliant one when it came to architecture, but what I saw immediately fascinated me. There were several different diagrams drawn in many points-of-views. Scrawled across the parchment along with them were many mathematical diagrams and dimensions in his sloppy handwriting. I took note of the random words written here and there. "Mirrors… electricity… wires…"   
  
What sort of devilry was this? Mirrors? Erik had been fond of illusions and mirages, but what could be so sinister about glass and a hexagonal building? He noticed my pensive expression and couldn't help but comment.  
  
"Interesting, isn't it, Daroga?" I looked up.  
  
"More along the lines of puzzling, I'm afraid. What is it?" I glared at him, incredibly perplexed.  
  
"The Sultana's dollhouse…," he replied, "Where she can house and punish all of her bad, boring toys." I sighed, frustrated. He always spoke in vague riddles when he wanted to play guessing games with his secrets. However, with his response, I made out that it was a torture chamber of sorts. I grimaced.  
  
"A torture chamber? You're disgusting, Erik." I immediately regretted letting those words slip. He was silent and showed no expression. Even though it was on the other side of the room, I kept my eyes on the lasso. I won't deny I was afraid of how he might counter that attack.  
  
"Perhaps I am," he said calmly. "However, I am entirely used to it." He grabbed the paper harshly and rolled it up. "Maybe I shouldn't consort with people who cannot hold their tongues…" Again, his voice trailed off. I was torn between regret and anger. Erik was undoubtedly brilliant, and it was a gigantic waste to put his talents to the sultana's evil needs.  
  
"Despite what you may think, Erik, you can be incredibly stupid." I paused, not so faltered by his fierce presence anymore. "You are obviously the sultana's little puppet and yet you fail to realize it. I feel no pity at all for you." He stopped, back turned towards me. I saw his shoulders rise in prostration. Erik turned on his heels and speeded towards me like a bullet. Before I could even realize it, he had his hands around my neck, forcing me to look into those blazing eyes.  
  
"I will be the one showing pity… showing remorse..," he spat, fingers tightening. A cold fear seized me as I realized he could kill me as swiftly with his bare hands as he could with the assistance of a lasso. "Yes… when you are the one caught in my house of mirrors… my damned forest … you will regret those words and beg for forgiveness. And I shall laugh to know that my dear companion was nothing more than an idiotic little cop burned to mere ashes. Ashes, you fool!" He released his grip, both of our chests heaving in the tenseness of the moment. Erik turned and massaged his temples, those dead fingers running through his few dark curls. I could hear what I thought to be muffled sniffling.   
  
He knew he was wrong, but was too betrayed and misguided to face the truth. I was torn between guilty for my harsh words or apathy for Erik's narrow-mindedness. Either way, I did in fact feel pity for how alone he felt. I then noticed that he had sat himself back in his chair. Unable to find the right words for such a dramatic situation, I turned to leave his house, flooded with too many emotions.  
  
"Wait…" he said softly. I stopped in my tracks at the sadness in his voice. The damned voice.  
  
"What is it," I said, as blankly as possible.   
  
"We never finished our game." There he was with his random words. I had figured he was sick of me being in house at the moment and would want me to leave. But to continue his chess match at the minute? The poor man. He just wanted a bit of fun and brotherhood like any normal person. I couldn't help but allow myself a confused smile.  
  
"Very well," I replied, straightening my shirt. I cautiously walked over to my chair and sat myself down. Once again, my tactless words got a hold of me. "I am terribly sorry to have caused you all of the trouble." Another dry laugh from Erik.  
  
"Daroga, you are a grain of sand in the dunes of my troubles." He moved his knight with little thought. "If I was really terrified of what you were capable of, I would have eliminated you long ago. You've backed yourself too deep into a corner to prove to be a threat… Check." More laughter from him. I then looked at the board to notice that he had backed my king into helpless spot. Damn.  
  
"Whatever that silly sultana has in store for me, I assure you that I will not let her get the best of me, either." He paused and looked once more into my eyes. I felt tempted to turn away, but something forced me to look right back. "Life is either 'kill or be killed', I'm afraid. I hope you are wise enough to realize this eventually and make the right choice." He seemed to linger on his own words and went quiet.  
  
I pondered my next move.  
The End. 


End file.
